


Care

by hardtostarboard



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardtostarboard/pseuds/hardtostarboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The last thing I remember.. is a giant's foot coming straight for me," he said, slanting his eyes over at Mahanon and lifting one eyebrow. "And I remember thinking that it isn't really how I ever thought I'd go out."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> First fic I have written in a while, first Dragon Age fic I have ever finished. I have a lot of love for Dorian and the Inquisitor.

"Help Dorian!"

It happened in slow motion. The giant fell to its knees and lashed out, kicking a foot back. The Tevinter mage was far too close, unprepared, catching the full width of the massive heel against the centre of his chest. He was taken off his feet, flying back, glancing against one of the thick-trunked trees so common in the Emerald Graves before he hit the ground and rolled to a stop in the shade of a moss-covered ruin.

He didn't move.

Sera answered the Inquisitor's shout, standing over Dorian's prone form and loosing arrows at anything that dared come close. Cassandra and Mahanon between them took down the giant, the tip of the Seeker's blade slashing its throat as the acrid, bitter stink of burning hair and flesh tainted the air. Mahanon blades were dropped to the ground before the rumble of the giant's final impact had faded and he darted to Sera's side, where the other elf was crouching down over their fallen comrade. Sera did not like Dorian, much as she did not like Vivienne, or Solas, or anyone who thought themselves 'better' be that opinion earned or not, but she shot a worried glance up to the Inquisitor as he knelt beside her and hovered his hands over Dorian's body, unsure.

"Drama queen, you. Can't be too bad, can it?" she asked, her usual smirking smile dimmed around the edges. She set her bow aside and used two fingers to tilt Dorian's head, quickly drawing back as a thin rivulet of blood oozed from the corner of the mage's mouth. "Ohhh, that's not good. Here, look--" A knife drawn from her belt caught the faintest misting of breath from Dorian's lips and behind them, Cassandra approached with her sword sheathed and the Inquisitor's daggers in hand.

Cassandra holding so many blades at once would have been comical under any other circumstances. All that Mahanon could muster was a grim smile as Sera tittered nervously.

"Sera, return to camp and bring a healer back with you." The Seeker's voice was firm, calm, and Sera nodded once without a word before grabbing up her bow and setting off through the trees at a run. Awkward in her armour, Cassandra took her place carefully balanced on one knee and caught the Inquisitor's eye, spying the unfamiliar fear there and doing her best to be reassuring.

"Do not worry, Inquisitor. He has come through worse than this before."

* * *

They had returned to Skyhold the moment that Dorian's condition was deemed stable. The healing abilities of field medics had managed that much, and in the fortress the care of one of the mages had aided further, but the man was still to wake and no one protested the orders that he be taken up to the Inquisitor's rooms.

Likewise, no one protested the unspoken order that Mahanon would not be leaving Skyhold for at least a few days. Cassandra and Cullen could coordinate scouting parties and missions well enough between them for a short time. If anyone had ever doubted their leader's devotion to his lover before then, they no longer did, and the whispers that this was some kind of plot or that the Tevinter had become an insurmountable ill influence over him were quickly quashed by those close enough to know the truth.

It was growing dark, snow-split twilight filtering in through the glass and glancing across dust motes dancing in the air. A plate of uneaten food - bread, cheese and cold meat - sat on a nearby table with a pitcher of water and an empty glass. Mahanon, eyes burning and a headache pulsing in the back of his skull, watched Dorian's face and traced the bruises and scrapes on his skin with his gaze, not daring to touch lest the man shatter. He looked fragile, pale, his hair mussed and a faint shadow of stubble showing against his skin. The moon rose, bathing the room in silver and Mahanon dozed with his head bowed against the quilt, his fingers tangled gently in Dorian's. He drifted through fractured images of trees and grasslands and ancient Elven glyphs, still half-awake, until a twitch of the hand in his and soft hiss brought him abruptly back into consciousness.

"Ah... _kaffas_ , that smarts."

"Dorian!" He gripped the man's fingers and kissed the knuckles, relief welling up so quickly he almost choked on it. Dorian's expression was bemused, halfway to uncomfortable, but fond as he drank in his lover's concern. His attention drifted, taking in the room and realising just where he was with a small uptick of one corner of his lips. Anticipating his question, Mahanon spoke against the skin of the back of his hand, no longer sure if the burn behind his closed eyelids came from exhaustion or withheld tears.

"I couldn't leave you with the rest of the injured. Not when I still can't be sure that no one here would try to hurt you to get to me." Multiple parties had already proven that they could bypass the Inquisition's spymaster and filter agents into Skyhold. On all occasions but one, they had been rooted out before they could hurt anyone, but it only took a moment to poison somebody. Dorian made a prime target for many reasons, but his relationship with Mahanon was the glaring bullseye in the centre. He opened his eyes, not realising he had let them fall closed, to find the mage looking up at the ceiling.

"The last thing I remember.. is a giant's _foot_ coming straight for me," he said, slanting his eyes over at Mahanon and lifting one eyebrow. "And I remember thinking that it isn't really how I ever thought I'd go out." Mahanon laughed wearily and shook his head. They both knew that Dorian should have never moved in so close, but likewise, they both launched themselves directly into the fray often enough to know that scolding was useless.

"You scared me," the Inquisitor admitted, letting out a heavy sigh and feeling some of the tension slide away with it. "I thought you were dead."

"I suppose that makes us even, then," Dorian replied, twisting his hand to knot their fingers together and draw Mahanon's over to the centre of his chest. There was a comfort in the beating of his heart under the sheets, and the elf couldn't find the energy to be annoyed by the cheap shot. There was no need for it, as Dorian relented a moment later and gave a gentle tug on his hand - a silent request for closeness. Mahanon moved, braced his hand against the bed on the other side of Dorian's chest and leaned in to press a soft, warm kiss to his lover's mouth. The thought that he could have never had this opportunity made him linger.

"How does my face look?" The question, murmured against his lips with an undeniable note of worry, drew another laugh.

"It looks fine."

" _Just_ fine?" Even recovering from injuries that could have threatened his life, Dorian still managed to look utterly scandalised. "My nose is crooked, isn't it. Help me up." Slowly, and with some assistance, he sat up and gingerly felt down the bridge of his nose with his thumb and first two fingers. Finding nothing amiss, he tested a tender spot on his cheekbone and made a face, the look of distaste quickly smoothed out by another kiss.

" _Gorgeous_ , ma vhenan. You'll have to trust me. I don't think your pride could take the wounding as well as your body did if I was lying."

"Hmm. I think you might be underestimating the fortitude of my pride," the Tevinter told him wryly, squeezing his hand. "And we both know that you're _terribly_ biased."

Mahanon would not deny that he had been dazzled by Dorian's charm from the moment they had first met. He had never found humans attractive before - they were aesthetically pleasing in their own way - but their eyes had met and he had felt no fear in the face of Dorian's origins, only curiosity. He had smiled, spoken, and the elf's stomach had fluttered. In the now nulled future they had navigated together, he had fought by the man's side and privately wondered at the fluidity of his casting as spells burst forth from his staff and fingertips. Dorian had proven himself loyal then, and nothing he had done since had given the elf reason to doubt it.

Cassandra had warned him against trusting Dorian too much, but he had fallen so helplessly for the man's charm and wit that only Dorian could catch him... and he had.

He still remembered their talk after their first time together, how Dorian had opened himself up - unsure and vulnerable - and asked where they would go from there. The expression of relieved disbelief when Mahanon had said he wanted him, that he wanted more, was not one that would leave his memory soon.

"I am," he admitted, shifting onto the bed to tuck himself up under Dorian's arm. The adrenaline had faded now, the void left by vanished fear and worry filling instead with a heavy exhaustion. Dorian was fine. Battered and bruised, but _fine_. The healers had done their work and he ought to be able to relax, but every nerve was still buzzing.

Dorian pressed a kiss to the side of his head and murmured into his hair. "I'm seeing two things very wrong with this scenario. You still have your clothes on, and you're not in bed."

As a man who rarely said anything directly, it was his way of telling his lover that they both needed the comfort. He knew just how close to death he could have come, he could still feel the ache of the impact against his ribcage, he remembered the bright burst of pain as he had hit the tree and blacked out. He had drifted in and out of consciousness as the mage healers had worked on him, hearing the words 'broken' and 'bleeding into his chest' and his only thought had been how sad it was that he wouldn't be able to say goodbye.

But then he had woken up, pulled protesting into wakefulness and he would not tell his dear, beloved elf that he had spent some minutes watching him doze before he had made any noise at all.

The Inquisitor nodded, and without further words shed his clothing and crawled under the sheets beside his lover. His fingers on the bandaged parts of Dorian's chest and stomach were hesitant, but smoothed when he showed no signs of pain.

"You'd be utterly lost without me, amatus. Do you really think I'd leave you so easily?"

"I don't want to think about it," Mahanon said quickly, settling into the soft pillows and breathing in deeply against Dorian's skin. Nimble fingers gently tweaked the tip of one of his pointed ears and he grunted, reflexively headbutting the man's shoulder. "You must be feeling better if you're teasing. How about training with Bull in the morning?"

"Oh, Maker," Dorian laughed, trailing his fingers up and down the elf's arm. "Have mercy. I don't intend to move from this bed until at least mid-afternoon, and I don't intend to let you leave, either."

"Ah." Closing his eyes, Mahanon nodded hazily. "That sounds ominous."

"Not at all, love. It's just my turn to take care of you. For the sake of fairness, you understand."

"Mm... I think I can live with that."


End file.
